sted you. It was
so likely to be littered with the most appealing bits of apparel--a
pair of tiny, crocheted bootees, pink and white; a sturdy linen smock; a
silken hood so small that one's doubled fist filled it.

The new catalogue was on the presses. Fanny had slaved over it, hampered
by Slosson. Fenger had given her practically a free hand. Results would
not come in for many days. The Christmas trade would not tell the
tale, for that was always a time of abnormal business. The dull season
following the holiday rush would show the real returns. Slosson was
discouragement itself. His attitude was not resentful; it was pitying,
and that frightened Fanny. She wished that he would storm a little. Then
she read her department catalogue proof sheets, and these reassured her.
They were attractive. And the new baby book had turned out very well,
with a colored cover that would appeal to any one who had ever been or
seen a baby.

September brought a letter from Theodore. A letter from Theodore meant
just one thing. Fanny hesitated a moment before opening it. She always
hesitated before opening Theodore's letters. While she hesitated the old
struggle would rage in her.

"I don't owe him anything," the thing within her would say. "God knows I
don't. What have I done all my life but give, and give, and give to him!
I'm a woman. He's a man. Let him work with his hands, as I do. He's had
his share. More than his share."

Nevertheless she had sent him one thousand of the six thousand her
mother had bequeathed to her. She didn't want to do it. She fought doing
it. But she did it.

Now, as she held this last letter in her hands, and stared at the
Bavarian stamp, she said to herself:

"He wants something. Money. If I send him some I can't have that new
tailor suit, or the furs. And I need them. I'm going to have them."

She tore open the letter.

"Dear Old Fan:

"Olga and I are back in Munich, as you see. I think we'll be here all
winter, though Olga hates it. She says it isn't lustig. Well, it isn't
Vienna, but I think there's a chance for a class here of American
pupils. Munich's swarming with Americans--whole families who come here
to live for a year or two. I think I might get together a very decent
class, backed by Auer's recommendations. Teaching! Good God, how I hate
it! But Auer is planning a series of twenty concerts for me. They ought
to be a success, if slaving can do it. I worked six hours a day all
summer. I wa